


The Unraveling

by Funkspiel



Series: Fantastic Beasts Kink Meme Fills [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Drowning, Fantastic Beasts Kink Meme, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Kidnapping, M/M, Manhandling, Mention of Forced-Feeding, Mention of Self-Inflicted Starvation, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Naked spooning, Near Death Experiences, Non-Consensual Touching, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Sharing Body Heat, Spooning, i'm trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 08:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9114418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkspiel/pseuds/Funkspiel
Summary: “We all have our hobbies, my dear Director,” he said. “You happen to be mine.”Fantastic Beasts Kink Meme Fill:PROMPT: Grindelwald is keeping Graves in a cabin in the woods. Graves manages to escape, but accidentally falls through thin ice. Grindelwald fishes him out, but can't have his captive freeze to death, so he warms him up the easiest way possible - body heat.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [蛰伏](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554112) by [annebaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annebaby/pseuds/annebaby)



Lay down next to me  
Don't listen when I scream  
Bury your thoughts (and doubts)  
And fall asleep  
Find out  
I was just a bad dream

\- Goodbye, by Apparat

 

Of all the places that Grindelwald could have chosen to imprison him, he selected a cabin in the middle of nowhere – and it decidedly did _not_ look like a prison. Somehow, that was worse. A prison, Graves could deal with. He had been trained to handle imprisonment and torture. When Grindelwald had gotten the jump on him in that alleyway – _damn that fucking coward_ – and finally beaten Graves down until he could fight no more, Graves had been ready to be hauled off to a cold, dark cage with wet walls and no escape. He had braced himself for pain and malice and cruelty; deserved it even, he thought, for falling to a maniac like Grindelwald.

What he hadn’t been prepared for was to wake up bloody but _bandaged_ and alone in some rather domestic looking cabin; covered in plush furs and soothed by the soft crackle of a cheerful fire. The bed he finally came to on had been thick and warm and absolutely more fucking marvelous than his own thin mattress at home – and he couldn’t help but _hate_ Grindelwald for that. Because when he got out he didn’t want to miss one single thing about his time in captivity.

But while his prison didn’t look like a prison, the cold manacles outlining his ankles and wrists definitely served as constant, heavy reminders that all was not as it seemed. Charmed and spelled to absorb any magic he tried to cast, it left Graves as useful as a No-Maj. He hadn’t even been aware of how often he used magic until it was no longer at his fingertips.

If he wanted a fire, he had to light it – that had been a fun adventure the first go around. If he wanted a bath, he had to draw the water and heat it with yet another fire. If he wanted logs for said fire, he had to chop the wood. If he wanted to eat, he had to prepare it – and surprisingly, Grindelwald left his pantry fully stocked at all times to Graves’ complete and utter befuddlement. He had resisted eating for a full week, too suspicious to trust the food, before Grindelwald had forced a bowl of oatmeal down his throat all the while cheerfully sneering that if he wanted to kill Graves, he would hardly use oatmeal to do it. Just thinking about it made Graves’ cheeks rage.

He rubbed them self consciously as though he could will the blush away as he stalked back and forth across the little cabin; his feet bare against the cool wood of its glossy floors. It was winter, wherever he was; deep winter, by the looks of it. Snow came and went here with the frequency of the sun’s daily passing – and it left everything beyond his windows in a blanket of crisp, untainted white. Quiet. Secluded. Trapped.

Even if he _did_ escape, Grindelwald would see his tracks in the snow. The clever bastard. The only thing Graves had going for him was the fact that the dark wizard did not come and visit _every_ night. He didn’t keep a pattern or routine, that would be foolish. But he obviously had more to do than solely keep an eye on the man whose life he stole. Graves couldn't help but bristle, thinking of the first time the wizard had stepped foot in the cabin wearing his face.

And oh, how he wore his skin so well. He must have studied him. Followed him. Watched him.

Graves shivered, both in fury and disgust. How had he not notice he had been followed for so long? How had no one noticed he was gone yet? Months had passed. **Months.** How had this happened?

How was he still here?

The glimmer from the fire flickered across the charming silver of his manacles, drawing his eyes even as his eyebrows furrowed in hate. He picked at them, agitating the skin beneath even as he knew that they would not budge. He had tried to stop eating and lose enough weight to slip free of them – but Grindelwald had noticed before he got far enough to do it and promised darkly (and with a smile a little too eager) to force-feed him again. Grindelwald didn’t go through with it, but he did start appearing at least three times a week to sit through a full, lavish meal with Graves – conjured by Graves’ wand, as if just to remind him of yet another thing he had stolen. And when Grindelwald found out that Graves had started throwing up said meals afterwards, he just found a way to charm the food so Graves couldn’t do it again.

And so, Graves was actually a healthy weight. If anything, he might have gained a pound or two, considering he had never done a particularly good job of attending to his own health back when he was in control of his life. But his new found health meant that the manacles wouldn’t be coming off by merely slipping them over his wrists any time soon.

But feeding him was not the only thing Grindelwald did on his visits. The only problem was, Graves was beginning to lose sight over what was wrong more and more each time the dark wizard came. He’d arrive – sometimes as Graves, sometimes already in his own flesh – and benignly ask Graves how his day was in a manner so domestic it made Graves’ insides riot. He’d chat with Graves, holding up the “conversation” mostly on his own while he prepared dinner. He’d watch Graves eat, and they'd eventually settle near the fire and…

A light… Warmth, comfort. He’d be so tired, and when he’d wake, the man would be gone – and whatever memory of what he’d done gone with it. And it was getting worse. Those blank spots in his memory growing and growing as his unease with his captivity dissipated inch by tiny inch; unnoticeable, at first, until one night he welcomed Grindelwald like a friend instead of remaining petulantly and pointedly silent.

So every day, he forced the hate back into his bones. He reminded himself of the consequences of complacency. He planned. He waited. He tried to resist.

Tried to ignore the babbling voice of fear in the back of his head screaming that he was losing it.

It had been two days since Grindelwald’s last visit when suddenly Graves could feel the wards that kept him from walking more than 300-feet from the cabin dissipate. Graves had shot up straight from where he had been lounging on the couch much like a dog catching an odd sound. He cast his focus outward, feeling for the wards that had singed his fingertips and even sent him flying once – but found nothing. The wards were well and truly down, and while he hadn’t found a way out of the manacles yet, he couldn’t afford to waste the opportunity to escape; even with only the strength of a common No-Maj.

He grabbed his small go-bag – a creation he had made with one of his many endless days of enforced boredom – hauled on his boots and coat, and flew out of the cabin without even bothering to put out the fire or close the door. If Grindelwald came, it wouldn’t take long for him to notice Graves’ absence, so he didn’t waste any time putting as much distance between himself and the cabin as he could.

It was snowing, and he couldn’t help but feel as though for once, luck was on his side as even now it began to fill the knee deep tracks he was leaving behind. It wouldn’t do much if the man appeared now, but if Grindelwald didn’t appear in the next few hours, his tracks would vanish completely.

He was too lost on the thrill of his escape to notice the way the frigid winter air was numbing his fingers or how his ears were quickly becoming as chill as death. He couldn’t afford to notice those things. Not when he was nearly free. He just had to find a town and get out an owl to someone trusted. To find a chimney he could Floo through or an emergency port key stashed by any branch of the MACUSA. If he could just figure out where he was…

He should have noticed it when the trail ahead of him suddenly dropped into nothing, but what with the way that the snow was falling and everything was covered in white – he didn’t. Instead, his feet were torn out from under him as he slid down a 30-foot incline, down, down, down until finally rolling a good distance into a white washed clearing.

He must have hit a rock on his way down, he realized, because suddenly the snow wasn’t pristine anymore, and he had to blink rapidly to try and make the image of two rather large bloodstains become one again. He touched his temple with cold, trembling fingers and found warmth beneath his fingertips – the blood quickly frosting where it congealed.

“Shit,” he snarled sluggishly beneath his breath; his tongue thick in his mouth as he struggled up to his feet. He was already listing precariously to the right when he heard it – thunder, like a gunshot, loud enough to feel in his heart – the sound of cracking ice.

He straightened himself as best he could and forced himself still as he finally saw through the snow his body had cleared away and the ice beneath. He was too far away from land on either side to just make a mad dash for it, and the embankment he had fall down – while close enough to shuffle to – was too steep to climb back up.

The manacles were a cold and biting presence on his wrists, a cloying reminder that he was fucked.

“No,” he murmured, blinking through the haze of his head wound, struggling to _focus_. “No, no, no, not now. Not after…”

Not after he had waited and waited for a chance like this. Not after he had been abducted and his life stolen and his wand taken and his magic stripped and his fucking freedom made into some illusive joke. It all felt very cruel and surreal, and he couldn’t stop the burning in his chest – the _anger_ – realizing he probably wouldn’t be going home.

This was it. At least Grindelwald wouldn't be able to finish whatever he had started...

He swallowed thickly as another roar from the ice quaked through his boots beneath him; thick enough to have held him this long, but not thick enough to support much more. Fucked he may be, but standing still wasn’t going to change that. In hindsight, he should have flattened onto his belly – dispersed his weight – but he’d blame the head wound for that oversight if anyone ever asked. Instead, he took first one tentative step, then another to the closet shoreline he could identify.

Another crack and something began to shift ever so slightly beneath his feet, as though bobbing gently. Graves felt a cool sweat creep over his skin and down his back. His hands were trembling, his breath a fierce and heaving mist before him. He took a breath and another step.

He made it three more steps when his eyes were drawn across the lake. He froze when he noticed a pale _something_ staring at him from across the way – its eyes oddly bright and twinkling even from such a distance. A wolf, he thought as he stared it, but it was nearly translucent like a ghost. Or maybe it was just white, like the snow. Or a figment of the head wound that was still oozing sluggishly down the side of his face.

But the eyes he was sure of. Something was definitely watching him. It pawed a little bit closer, then shuffled back and forth along the edge of the ice as though hesitant before finally lifting its head and letting out a long, piercing howl.

As if the ice weren’t enough, Graves couldn’t help but curse as he realized he’d probably just be torn apart by rabid wolves if he even managed to make it across the lake. Rage burned in his veins at the unfairness of it all, and he tried to ignore the way the wolf kept trailing along the edge of the lake watching him as he shuffled another few steps closer.

When he looked back up – _too quickly, too quickly –_ there were two of the wolf, and he frowned stupidly at that. When had that happened? The image wavered in front of his eyes, then became one again, but he was too late in realizing what had happened. What _was_ happening.

He pitched slowly to the side before he could quite stop himself, the blood loss having finally caught up with him. With a painful jolt he did manage to catch himself with his hands, but the damage was already done. With a sharp, knowing intake of breath, he looked around to see the spider web cracks that were beginning to seep out from under him like some dreadful work of art. He held his breath and a soft prayer of ‘ _no, no, no’_ rushed through his head.

Another howl, and when he looked up, the wolf was far more agitated than before – prancing and pawing at the snow as it threw out yet another long, mournful call. After a long, tense moment it appeared as though the ice would hold. He sighed and pressed his clammy forehead against the ice before reaching forward to pull himself belly first across the lake.

And then the ice gave way, swallowing him like a great and awful maw – jagged cuts of ice like teeth that pulled him down and slipped closed behind him. He hadn’t even had time to shout, let alone catch a breath. Even if he had, the cold would have punched it out of him. As it was, he struggled to kick back to the surface – his coat and bag and boots a heavy weight that pulled and pulled and pulled at him.

Below him, all was dark and wretched, and he felt a surge of fear race through him knowing that it was that very darkness that awaited him. He reached for his magic only for his stomach to fall with heavy dread as the manacles just absorbed it all away. With a great series of frantic twisting, he managed to weasel out of first his bag, then his boots and coat. Lighter, he kicked his way back to the surface and clawed at the ice. It moved, slightly, but it was already freezing over again.

Black was beginning to creep in around the edges of his vision, his breath an empty and burning vice around his chest. He convulsed with the need to breathe, his nostrils burning, but still he struggled. Blood oozed gently into the water as a nail chipped free, then another. But still, the ice would not budge.

His mind became a roaring crescendo of _‘I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die’,_ the sound of it so loud he didn’t notice it at first when his legs slowly began to stop moving beneath him. His heartbeat was a thick, cotton-gauzed thump in his veins that pulsed painfully around the pressure in his head and around his eyes.

The surface began to slip away.

At least he had tried. In the end, he hadn’t died a captive, but free. Free of the cabin. Free of Grindelwald.

Something dark appeared above him.

A light…

He blinked, sluggish, confused.

He took a breath and cold flooded him.

He closed his eyes…

And then he was being pulled from the ice and the cold and the dark death below – the ice a harsh pain against his back as he was hauled back onto the surface. He spluttered and thrashed, his eyes trained on the pale blue hands beneath him as water poured from his mouth by the lungful in hacking gasps. The ice was strong now, he realized through frozen lashes. Thick where once it had been weak. And there were boots in front of him, familiar boots. His brow crinkled and he looked up.

Grindelwald’s face was stormy in a way that Graves couldn’t quite pinpoint, but it did make his gut twist when the demented man suddenly lunged down for him and grabbed him by the soaking wet collar of his shirt. His stomach churned even more uneasily as he was suddenly forcefully disapparated, and before he knew it, he was back inside a familiar – if now dark – cabin.

“No,” he whispered, trembling, eyes-wide with realization. He was back. _He was fucking back where he started._ With a great effort, he managed to roll onto his back and stare at the ceiling as a dark shape bustled around him. Within seconds, the fire that had died in Graves absence roared back to life with a simple flick of the wrist. The door slammed shut. The oven lit and open. It was not until warmth sprang up like a fierce wall around him that he realized how _fucking cold he was._ As though reminded, his body convulsed in one, hard shudder before the shivering began, albeit weakly.

And all the while, Grindelwald said nothing.

Graves thought he would have been grateful to anything that saved him from the lake. Now, he just wished he had died a little quicker. His throat felt thick and painful as it clenched, and it took him a moment to realize that the wetness pricking at his eyes wasn’t from the lake. He was crying.

He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, Grindelwald was kneeling over him – his hands already working on pulling the drenched, frigid sweater off of Graves with quick, efficient movements. Graves felt something like terror seize his heart.

“W-what… N-no, do-don’t,” he chattered, his teeth clicking as he tried to stop the man with his numb, fumbling hands. Grindelwald knocked them patiently aside twice before finally charming the manacles to the floor by force and simply using Graves' wand to cut the soggy material off in pieces. The sound of his final bits of protection slapping wetly across the floor made Graves’ eyes sting even more. Oh, how he hated Grindelwald. Oh, how he hated himself – weak, unable to stop him.

“Hush, Director,” was all Grindelwald said, and somehow his reassurances were worse than if he had taunted Graves. “I’ve got you.”

‘ _That’s the fucking problem,’_ he thought furiously.

Next went his pants, his socks, his undergarments, until finally he was a naked and shivering mess beneath Grindelwald’s intense stare. He tried to glare at him, but he knew how he must look – trembling and pale, hair frozen and temple bloody. Weak and useless.

Rage burned in his chest, and when Grindelwald first tried to lift him, he thrashed as wildly as he could manage before the man finally had to resort to magic in order to restrain and haul Graves to the bed. He had intended to flee the moment the magic had released, but the floating charm seamlessly turned into another spell that held him to the bed quite easily.

Graves opened his mouth to say something scathing when the front door suddenly opened. A wet, black nose appeared in the small gap made between the door and its frame before a large, lithe figure slinked into the cabin and closed the door behind itself with a surprising amount of clarity. Close up now, he could see that it _was_ in fact ghostly in nature, at least in some manner. It’s silver white hair swirled gently on an nonexistent current as it padded forward – keen eyes trained on Graves. He watched as the huge creature, as though now reassured that Graves lived, finally moved in front of the fireplace and laid down with a large sigh. He was just about to ask about it when the sound of a zipper ripped him from his thoughts.

In his distraction, Grindelwald had already managed to remove his waistcoat and shirt without Graves noticing. A heavy anchor of dread pulled down at his chest as he watched the man’s pants fall to the floor with a soft whisper, and with them, the illusion of Graves’ face – replaced by a shock of white hair and an unfathomable expression.

“What are y-you doing?” Graves asked, hating how the cold made him stutter.

“Saving you,” Grindelwald said. Graves’ eyes peeled away as the last garment between Grindelwald and true nudity fell to the floor, and tried to find the energy to struggle when he heard rather than saw Grindelwald approach the bed.

“ _Imperio_ ,” the man whispered gently beneath his breath, like an afterthought, and suddenly Graves was free from the magic that held him still – but imprisoned in a new way altogether. He shifted unwillingly and made room for the dark wizard as he slipped into bed behind him. Long, strong arms slipped beneath and around him, pulling him back until the dark wizard’s chest was flush with his own back and a bristly chin rested gently on his shoulder.

Graves was shorter than Grindelwald – a fact that he _detested_ even on the best of days – but he hated it more than ever now as he realized how it made it that much easier for the madman to spoon him because of it. A warm breath whispered a spell against his ear and then the furs on the bed were lifted up by the soft pull of magic to embrace them fully. Heat slowly began to bleed into his skin.

Grindelwald leaned up for a moment to look at the wound across his temple. With a soft, chiding cluck of his tongue he pressed one thumb gently against the gash and urged the skin to close. A shiver completely unrelated to the cold raced through Graves at the feeling of another’s magic binding up his skin. He wished Grindelwald would scream, yell, anything that would make sense after Graves had just tried to _escape_  - just not this gentleness, not this kindness.

“Were you truly so eager to be free of me?” Grindelwald asked, as though speaking fondly to a beloved dog that had finally been found. “I thought you enjoyed it here.”

Graves clenched his jaw and Grindelwald chuckled.

He glared at the wall, eyes burning and teeth biting fiercely into his lip. When it became obvious that Grindelwald was more than content to let his captive stew in silence, Graves finally broke the quiet.

“H-how… how did you know?” He finally asked.

Grindelwald smiled against his shoulder. He always enjoyed explaining how he was better than Graves.

“The wolf,” he said, his facial hair scratching against Graves’ shoulder as he spoke, “She’s a familiar of mine. Tasked with watching over you, should you somehow escape the wards.”

The wards.

“They fell. Why?”

Grindelwald stiffened.

“Someone surprised me and they were dealt with. It won’t happen again.”

So they were likely dead, whoever they were.

Graves licked his lips and closed his eyes, trying to remind himself that the large hand that was urging warm, delicious magic into the skin of his chest was the hand of a madman. His shivers lessened.

“Why did you come for me?” He finally asked, hating how soft it came out.

Grindelwald made a show of running his fingers kindly through Graves’ hair – melting away the ice he found there - and kissed his shoulder, making Graves’ muscles tense as Grindelwald hummed, searching mindfully for the right words. Finally, he chuckled.

“We all have our hobbies, my dear Director,” he said. “You happen to be mine.”

And then Grindelwald raised one finger to twirl gently, fondly, against Graves’ temple and watched as it began to glow a soft and eerie blue. With a long smile, he began to whisper into Graves’ ear just as he did each time he visited, and Graves’ eyes grew slowly distant and pale blue as he listened; calm and warm until finally he fell asleep.


End file.
